By choice I am the grass cutter in the family. I enjoy mowing the grass and I cut it exactly to my specifications; the males in my family do not. Larry’s job is to keep the mower running one more year ad infinitum. He’s spent quite a bit of personal time with it recently.

Approximately two weeks ago, I was mowing the front yard and ran out of gas out by the road, the point in the yard most distant from the gas can’s storage place. Naturally I called Stuart to fetch the heavy can for me. What’s the point of having a grandson in residence if not to do the heavy lifting? He came out, collected the usual gas can, and filled the mower. That infernal machine growled and groaned and refused to crank. It had been running fine until we refueled it. Just as I started to the house to find Larry, he appeared and headed across the yard.

“Where’d y’all get the gas you just put in the mower?” he inquired, politely.

“From the usual can out back,” I replied.

“That can had a tiny hole in the top,” he smiled sweetly. “I moved the mower gas to the new can. You just filled the mower with diesel fuel.”

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